Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending goshdarnit)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Christ, how bad did someone have to mess up that they forgot the god damned baby?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: _"So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."_

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, mild racist language – as per canon concerning Merle's character, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, and vague season three spoilers/four spoilers.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending goddammit)**

_**Chapter One**_

He had to admit he was a bit late to the party – toughing it out alone in the woods with only his knife to cover his ass would do that to a man – late enough that by the time he'd snuck in through the back fence, whatever shitty ass party the Governor had thrown was already winding down for a finish.

He nearly fell flat on his ass, caught off guard trying to figure out which way the gunshots were coming from, when a walker lurched out from behind a wood pile. He cursed, taking a step back and letting his stump swoop in for the down swing – sending a few teeth and a thatch of stringy brown hair flinging back as he caught it under the chin – opening it up just enough for his knife to do the rest.

The line of his lips firmed – if only slightly – when he recognized the face.

_Fucking shit._

_What the hell had happened here?_

_He'd only been gone six god damned days._

_Simple supply run his lily white ass._

* * *

He took the rest of the yard slow – crouching low, all cautious like. There was no sense in rushing in to be the hero when he knew full well that the herd could fend for themselves. Because they were still fighting, he knew that much, they weren't the sort to give up easy.

He should know after all, he'd helped train 'em up over the winter. He'd pulled his weight. Even when the others had got all prissy and shit, putting up a fuss about it. He wasn't no kept man. He'd do his part and say 'fuck you' afterwards like any other 'nine to fiver'.

He was a man, goddamnit.

Not some stray dog.

He cocked his head, listening. The gunshots had devolved – tricklin' down to a _spit-spit_ every couple of seconds. It was distant now, like the bulk of the fighting was either on the run or movin' to a different part of the prison.

He was tempted to dump the pack he was still lugging around – heavy and catching between his shoulder blades – but the haul was too good to dump. Meds, booze, non-perishables, baby shit, maps; all stuff they needed, especially if he was right about how things were gonna end up. Because hell if there wasn't a god damned _tank _chilling in what was left of the courtyard. The tower was a mess of pulverized brick and milling shapes. And he couldn't see if-

This wasn't salvageable.

This was every motherfucker for themselves.

* * *

He blew out a breath, looking for Daryl as he scanned the grounds from behind the pit they'd been using to dump their trash. It stank to high heaven but it provided cover – at least for the time being – until he'd worked out some sort of game plan.

In truth, he must have just missed the show. He'd been a mile or two off when he'd first heard the blast – the gunshots – fuck knows how long the Governor and his people had been camped out before that. Couldn't be more than a day, tops. He'd only been gone a few days and as he remembered, the man wasn't known for patience.

He'd found a place, a solid block of houses where the pickings were good and plentiful. He would've been able to take it all if he'd had a few more hands, pardon the expression, but despite the months that'd spanned out since his little tete-a-tete with the Governor, no one was exactly jonesing to spend the day with Woodsbury's most wanted.

So, he'd gone off on his own.

And frankly, unless it was just him and Daryl, that was how he liked it. _El solo_.

He didn't need nobody. Hell, he wasn't a complicated man. He didn't need much. A place to sleep, food in his belly and a little something to wet his throat at night did him just fine. Wouldn't say no to a piece of tail, neither. But hey, sometimes even he had the occasional dry spell.

He frowned, ignoring the pull of the wrinkles through the dirt. Feeling the urge to do something stupid pressing up like the frustration that was itching just underneath his skin. What he wouldn't give to catch a glimpse of that one-eyed asshole in this mess.

There weren't no bigger slight to a one-handed man than to take a sampler of his remaining digits like that. Fuck if losing his hand had been bad, but learning to get by with less than a handful of fingers on top of it had been downright inhuman. It took a special sort of man to just lay into someone like that, snap-snapping, you'd think the man was half walker already.

_Crazy bastard._

* * *

He lasted less than five minutes before restless feet did him in and had him inching towards what was left of the main courtyard. The fingers on his hand were aching, trying to do the work of a full set as he kept his knife up – ready.

He stepped around a pile of mowed down walkers.

Then another.

Keen eyes following a trail of blood spatter – fresh and still red – right to the source. He left the body - white shirt, dark brown hair, one hand stretched out - where he found it. He didn't bother turning her over to see if he recognized her. She'd eaten a bullet last minute, face a wreck of brain matter and ivory shards.

He reckoned she'd probably been pretty, once.

The gun was nowhere to be seen.

His lip curled, doing a mental count as close to half a dozen walkers started lurching towards him, moanin'. Roamers, lurkers, some of them even a few weeks from fresh. He squinted, near-sighted. He didn't see no bites. Just bloody eyes, noses, ears.

_Where the fuck were all these newbies com'in from anyway?_

He'd never seen a geek all purdied up like that.

It looked like they'd gone off like a fuckin' faucet.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled as the closest one stumbled into a fox-hole, face a nightmare of bloody streaks and hollow eyes. He took a step back, not letting them get too close. Deciding to lose them around the curve of the building rather than touch whatever the fuck all _that_ was.

He shook his head, taking off at an uneasy run.

_What kinda mess had his little bro gotten himself into this time?_

* * *

He was ready to praise the jackass upstairs when he stumbled across a couple people he didn't recognize, they were bloody mess of bullet holes and fall damage. But more importantly, they were loaded. Glocks, semi-automatics, a T-bar and an old buck knife.

_It was fuckin' Christmas in Georgia tonight!_

He grinned – more grimy teeth and a silent snarl than anything, like his lips had forgotten what the real thing actually felt like – as he shouldered both of the semi-autos. Pausing long enough to unbuckle the thigh holsters before moving on. He shoved the two Glocks into his waistband. Figuring he'd have time to fiddle around with the buckles and snaps later as he zipped them into a side pocket.

He thought he'd caught the roar of an engine – low and heavy off by the gravel pit – the bus maybe. But by that point he was too close to the flames to tell the sounds apart. He paused, feeling the brick exterior rasp across the thick canvas of his pack. There was a group of walkers piling around what was left of the tower, probably just distracted enough to let him sneak around to the other side.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, keeping an eye out for the sky-bridge that separated the maximum security cells from the rest of the blocks.

If Daryl was still around maybe he was-

* * *

He got to the inner courtyard just in time to get a glimpse of that dude – Tyreese whatever - herding the two Samuel girls out of the firefight, intent on getting to the cover of the treeline. He stayed quiet, watching, no use in hollerin' when they were already too far away. Hell, the big guy was too busy snapping off shots at the trio of assholes chasing them down to pay any mind to the little blonde pulling at his elbow - pointing backwards.

And as if on cue, a warbling cry – indignant and shrill pierced through the quiet.

He turned on his heel, good hand posed on his hip as he felt the sole of his boot catch on the loose gravel. And yep, god knows he recognized _that _screech. He took a quick look around – half expecting to see Papa Bear or at least the songbird come runnin' – but there was no one to be seen, just blood, spent rounds and walkers closin' in.

He spat on the ground and adjusted his belt, giving it a count through before he walked on over. Unease rippled through him like something fly-by-the-night, slippery and foul in a way he wasn't ready to inspect too closely as he peered over the side of the bloody car seat. Side-eying the contents like it might be combustible as a flurry of bullets – ricochets mostly – dug into the brick wall a few yards to his left.

He took one look at that red, squalling face before grimacing and turning away.

_He weren't no fuckin' nurse maid._

He looked around, willin' someone to pop out and take charge. The silver fox, maybe. Hell, he'd take his Nubian Queen right about now if it meant a get outta' jail free card.

He caught a flash as the three of them made it into the treeline, Tyreese leaning down to scoop up the youngest as the people chasing them stalled - too busy dealing with a herd to give chase.

He wheeled around, keeping an eye on the stiffs as at least half a dozen started tottering towards them, makin' right for the noise-maker as two pudgy little legs kicked – fitful and steaming mad – as the little Grimes girl made her displeasure known.

_Christ, how bad did someone have to fuck up that they forgot the god damned baby?!_

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be two more chapters, so stay tuned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, and vague season three spoilers – four spoilers.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)**

_**Chapter Two**_

The decision ended up being made for him when another group of walkers spotted them, freshly blooded and still flinging around bits and pieces of what was left of the Governor's new fan club. They'd set their eyes on his fine ass, make no mistake.

He looked over at the rapidly closing gap, gumming at the inside of his cheek. The atmosphere set by a backdrop of crumbling brick and whinging steel as the – _fuck! _The random spit of gunfire caught him off guard, nearly clipping him with shards of rubble as some douchebag shot blind – spooked and alone - from behind the cover of a smoking car.

_Shit._

He snapped off a shot on reflex, Dixon pride and all that, before ducking down and unbuckling the little shit from the carrier. He caught her firm in his good hand, trying to make up for the wriggling as he grabbed her around the collar and tucked her firmly into his side. He set his eyes on the little patch of leafy-green freedom as he scooped up the bag that'd been left beside her and high tailed it towards the woods – Glock blaring as he cleared a hole right through the thick of 'em.

He couldn't help but pop a grin as they dodged this way and that, zig-zagging around walkers and stray bullets as the gap between them and the trees narrowed and he found his stride.

_Well look'it him, being all heroic and shit._

_A'int that just a twist for the record books._

* * *

It wasn't until they were about half a mile from the worst of it that he skidded to a stop. He dropped the squirming meat-bag at the base of an oak – all knobby roots and twisted bark - letting the kid scoot off on her own for a couple of meters, filthy hand firmly in her mouth as her sobbing ratcheted up a notch.

"Aint no use in cryin'," he wheezed, good hand braced across his knees. _Christ, he had to stop smoking, or something. Winded by half a mile? Fuck. Maybe age wasn't just a number after all. _"Not like it's gonna change nothin'."

When he'd gotten his breath back, he took a quick look around. Deeming the area safe for now, he shrugged out of his pack, sighing in relief as the sweaty plane of his shoulders breathed for the first time in ages. He stretched, joints popping before he crouched down and started rooting through his pack, ignoring the pitching cries, well aware that they were probably drawing every walker within a quarter-mile. They were gonna have to move soon.

He clicked his tongue in triumph when he pulled out the bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the cap. He took a quick draw, eyes crinkling, before taking a longer one. It was some Canadian shit that burned on the way down, but did the job well enough.

He spared the girl a glance every now and again, it seemed stupid considering it wasn't like she was gonna go anywhere. But found he couldn't stop himself all the same. He figured it was just like watching Daryl when he'd been a squirt, making sure he didn't swallow a Lego or stick a fork up his nose or some shit.

But really, he shouldn't have bothered.

She was too busy screeching – watery eyes lookin' over at him, faintly betrayed - to do much else.

He snorted, rolling his eyes for good measure as her free hand flailed around. Making pointed 'up-up-up' motions as she hiccuped through a sob – momentarily startling herself before the crying resumed in earnest.

Sheriff was gonna _shit _when he realized who'd just saved his own flesh and blood.

* * *

He had a good half a minute to bask in the mental image before his brain went and ruined it for him. His brow puckered as the wind shifted and the thought made tracks.

If Captain America was even still alive, that is.

Hell, if _any _of them were.

He paused, looking down at ol' sausage links as genuine horror lanced across his mind's eye.

And really, he hadn't thought this through at _all_.

* * *

Three hours later he was ready to concede that he really wasn't cut out for child-mindin'.

The baby was still screaming.

They'd spent the last two and a half hours dodging what felt like half a state worth of walkers. He was down to a clip and a half and he hadn't found even so much as a hint of the others – of Daryl - and honestly, he was one hundred percent _done _with everything.

"Yo, Jude, cut me some slack here, _Jesus_," he muttered, back against a tree as a group of walkers scented the air on the other side of the clearing. He flicked gently at her cheek as she flopped, exhausted in his arms – close to crying herself out – droolin' and snottin' across his shirt.

The soft cries were almost worse than the pitching ones.

They made something deep in his chest tighten in a way he surely didn't appreciate.

He closed his eyes, head thumping back against the mossy bark.

_Christ, something had to give here and hell if it was gonna be him!_

* * *

He decided to call it a day when night started falling, finding them a nice sheltered circle of close-together trees and enough natural cover that their backs were protected. The fire he built was puny, but considering the circumstances he wasn't keen on pressing their luck.

He'd be surprised if they made it through the night without having to make a run for it.

He tossed down the blanket he'd been toting the little princess around in and plunked her down on it, letting gravity do the rest as she teetered to port. Blinking sluggishly through red-swollen eyes as he set about collecting kindling.

He felt her little eyes on him as he dumped a pile beside the little pit he'd scooped out. He tugged at the straps of the metal cap covering his stump, loosening it the slightest of bits before retreating, bow-legged, behind a tree to relieve himself.

The silence, especially after hours of all that racket, was downright unnerving.

It wasn't until he settled down, grunting his appreciation as he leaned up against a fallen log and started rooting through her diaper bag that she perked up. The moment he dug up a bottle - half-full and _slish-sloshing _with formula bubbles - she downright _cooed_. Making all _gimmie-gimmie_ as he sighed and grabbed her by the shirt-collar, towing her close with his good hand as she crawled right into his lap, settlin' in like she owned the joint.

"Christ alive, you could have at least said something," he snarked, feeling the fight go out of her the same moment he offered her the bottle. Tiny little fingers knitting together with what was left of his own as dusk settled in to stay.

His eyes closed reflectively, senses singing as impossibly soft skin skimmed curiously across his scar-studded hide. He didn't have it in him to look down, just grateful he'd found a way to shut her up as she took great shuddering pulls that would have put some of his own bar buddies to shame.

_It was about time fate decided to toss something in his favor._

_God damn._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There should be two more chapters, stay tuned.

**Reference:** The whiskey Merle is drinking Wisers Deluxe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, mild sexism, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, and vague season three spoilers – four spoilers.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)**

_**Chapter Three**_

She sucked it down, greedy as anything, drooping like a wilting flower in the crook of his arm as the fire _crick-crackled_ and the darkness grew layers. She was a warm weight, heavy and light in all the right ways. Substantial but not obtrusive, at least not when she was like this, all pliant, sleepy and shit.

It was generally a whole 'nother thing when she was awake.

Oh yeah, he'd been around for _those _days.

The weeks where she'd been teethin' had been a god damned _bitch_.

Daryl hadn't been half as much trouble. He remembered that well enough. He'd always been the quiet one, polite and easy-going right from the get-go. Like he'd been born into the world not expecting much and was just grateful for the scraps he was thrown. Even on his off days it was like somehow, the kid had just known. Known that he couldn't be too loud, too much of a handful - known that every second of every day was thin ice they were all skatin' on.

Whereas this one, little miss love child, had no sense or survival instinct whatsoever. She was a chatterbox, for one thing. Whether she was laughing or crying or doing everything in between, she was a mess of curious eyes and stubby legs that wanted so badly to walk, but couldn't quite figure out the trick of it yet.

He shook his head, welcoming the clarity the night chill brought in spades. But there was no heat in it when he snorted, watching her tip back, half-asleep. One hand reaching out into empty air like she could grasp the world and everything in it.

_Aint that just like a woman._

* * *

The next morning found them hip-deep in disagreement with her not wanting the bottle and him firmly opposed to leaving until she'd sucked at least half the damn thing down.

He'd followed the stupid directions on the back of the tin, why the fuck-

The deliberate way she spat up the nipple and turned her head for the_ fifteenth_ god damned time made it personal. He cussed up a blue streak as he shoved it into her face again. Determined.

"Lord alive, who the hell put you in charge huh? Nobody, that's who. Little miss squawk and have your way. This aint a debate," he insisted, jabbing at her lips with the bottle as she blew spit-bubbles in retaliation, face screwing up like she was aiming to start crying again.

"You have the others running, well that shit aint gonna fly with me. 'Yer a potato with legs, girl. Aint nothing more to me, 'ya hear?" he growled, giving no quarter as she tried to squirm out of his grip, just as annoyed as he was as they failed to understand each other in the follow through.

She had to be hungry god damn it. They fed her the same time every morning like clockwork. Hell, he'd seen it done lord knows how many times. It was the Sheriff mostly – at least in the mornings – ambling into the mess to start the kettle, warming up the water to _oh-_

It wasn't until he shifted, poking at the fire to see if there were a few coals worth bringing to light that he caught a smell – rank and pungent – that made all his previous problems positively pale in comparison.

Oh _hell _no.

* * *

He ended up having a good yell about it.

"_I didn't survive this long, I didn't lose my hand, just to wind up changing your shit shorts little lady, ya hear me. Quit 'yer crying!"_

But the truth was, he was an old hand at all this.

Their mama had been a good one – a decent woman – as far as their folks were concerned. Unlike their old man with his mean-streak and wandering eye, at least she'd loved 'em, cared about 'em and all that.

But there'd been some days when the wine had been just a bit too strong. Days where she hadn't been able to pull herself out of bed until past noon and it'd been _him_ warming up the formula. Dicking around with the tabs on the Pampers as Daryl's thin little chicken legs had wind-milled around, eager to go nowhere across the narrow kitchen table.

He'd always been careful, clearing away the cigarette butts and tequila bottles before he set him down on a soft blanket. He swore the little shit had been the only thing that'd taught him what little patience he actually had.

It'd been different back then.

They'd been different.

_Closer._

* * *

They spent the majority of the day just lookin', getting their bearings.

He found tracks, criss-crossing and ass-backwards. Like half of them had followed in each other's wake without knowing it, only to split ways here and there then head out the opposite direction. Fucking city-slickers.

He shook his head, wheeling around as he examined the trampled undergrowth.

The walkers had done a hell of a job mucking things up, that was for damn sure.

He should have been able to distinguish them by boot-tread but not with all this fuckin' traffic. A herd must have come through here no too long ago, an hour or two, tops. Which was bad news for them considering that was probably the direction they needed to go to find the others.

His stump wavered – noncommittal – north to west, south to east.

He didn't even have a fuckin' coin to flip.

The girl let go of a questioning warble, fisting his collar as she looked around at the clearing from her perch in his good arm. He couldn't help but agree, ignoring the steady rise and fall of her little chest against his as they just stood there – mute and uncertain.

_Where the hell was Daryl?_

* * *

He figured out pretty quick that their whole arrangement wasn't going to work. He weren't no pack mule. If they were gonna do this, head out cross-country like lassie searchin' for Timmy stuck in the god damned well, he needed something better than a blanket or a sack to carry her around in.

He'd already had to switch up his game plan, finding it a whole hell of a lot harder to do just about anything with little miss useless in tow. He needed to be able to use his god damned hand. Whenever he needed his gun it was a bloody juggling act and he knew he wasn't the only one getting sick and tired of being whipped around whenever he needed to do anything more complicated than taking a piss.

There was only one thing for it.

They needed to go shopping.

* * *

He had to rip through close to a half dozen houses before he found what he was looking for – sorta. He'd been thinking about one of those carriers you wore like a backpack, but ended up pulling out one of the front wearing ones from a box – labeled Mabel's baby stuff - in someone's garage instead.

And okay, that hadn't exactly been his proudest moment right there. Grudgingly admitting that it'd worked out for the best considering he still needed to haul around his pack and the god damned diaper bag. He huffed at the ceiling as he shook it out, making sure there were no stress lines in the buckles as he tried it on for size.

_So sue him, he was sleep deprived and apparently there just weren't enough hours in the day for the little lady to sleep through, alright?_

He dusted off his hands. Rolling his eyes as Jude bounced around, sitting in the driver's seat of the old Chevrolet parked inside the garage - dead as a doornail and outta' gas to boot. Little hands gripping the steering wheel for balance as she tried and failed to pull herself up, watching him expectantly through the windshield like she was waiting for him to pull a rabbit outta his ass.

_Christ, children were complicated._

* * *

Daryl had been an accident.

Unwanted even by him as the idea of having to share what little he had of his mama's attention gradually sunk in during the months that had followed the all-out screaming match after she'd come out of the bathroom one morning, pale and crying.

It had only given him another reason to hate him before he was even born.

No one made his mama cry like that.

Not unless he could help it.

His six year old self had been a bit of an idiot.

But he figured that since it ran in the family, he had something of an out.

Their old man had wanted her to take care of it. To head over the border to some back alley clinic and deal with the problem all quiet like. It'd been the only time he'd ever seen her dig her heels in. The only time he could remember her standing up to him. She'd told him to go fuck himself, taken the backhand to the face with the ease of long practice, bundled him off into the car and driven through the night to stay at her mom's.

He'd coaxed her back eventually. But he'd never forgotten that span of days. When mama had gotten out of bed before noon, when there had been g'ma's soft smile and pancakes for breakfast. When there had been an old toy box full of new toys to play with and a strange neighbourhood to explore. When there had been no yellin', no bruises, or the dull smack of flesh on flesh. It'd been peaceful. Quiet in a way he hadn't known how to deal with, but took to like a fish to water after the week was out.

That day in the hospital marked a turning point – like the climax of some Hollywood movie -his brain did a complete three-sixty as the doctor held the squirming, red-faced sack of skin up against the window for him and grandma to see.

He couldn't deny that he'd changed his tune pretty quick after that, watching him suspiciously over the edge of the car seat the entire ride home. Secretly fascinated by the little fingers and toes, the dark blue eyes that seemed to follow him no matter what he did. It had been the promise of companionship to the touch starved, and like an addict, he'd been hooked before they'd so much as pulled into the driveway.

Daryl had been more _his_ than he'd ever been anyone else's.

He'd raised him. Taken care of him. Protected him.

He'd never told him though. Never told him how unwanted he'd been. How close he'd been to exiting the world just as quickly as he'd entered it. Not once. Not even when he'd wanted to. Not during the fights and the smack downs, the drug-induced stupors that'd become common place after his stint in juvy. There were just some things you didn't say to blood and that was one of them.

Daryl had been the best thing that'd ever happened to him.

Only he'd never quite managed to be the same to him.

Funny how shit works out sometimes.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – One (probably two tho) more chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, and vague season three spoilers – four spoilers.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)**

_**Chapter Four**_

Two houses down, he found the mother-load in the form of a fully stocked liquor cabinet _and _a brand new baby's room just waitin' to be broken in. He didn't dwell too much on the dust-covered diapers set out on the dresser, or the pictures of the happy couple who'd lived there. Baby bumps, sonograms and due dates plastered across the walls and refrigerator.

He knew better than to look too close.

He flicked a pile of deflated balloons – _congratulations, it's a boy!_ \- off to the side as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, content in the knowledge that little orphan Annie was safely corralled in the play pen upstairs, shut up with more toys and stuffed animals then she probably knew what to do with.

He blew out a breath, sagging against the cushion-ridden breakfast nook, determined to enjoy the peace and quiet as the silence of the house settled across his shoulders like a comforting weight. He'd forgotten how easy it was to get all domesticated. It was a trap that seemed primed to cater to all his creature comforts. A decent crib, nice locale, gushy arm chair and a fine selection of happy endings at his disposal.

_What more could a man ask for?_

He swirled a shot of Bourbon straight from the bottle, smacking his lips appreciatively as he examined the overgrown backyard. Might even have to throw in some 'one's company action' after his stint playin' nursemaid.

He hadn't been kidding about sufferin' through something of a dry spell.

A man had needs after all.

He collapsed on the couch, a controlled fall that was all dust motes and a soft cotton blanket draped across the side. Considering the position of the sun in the sky, they'd stay here for the night. Scrounging up what they could before heading out in the morning. They'd be sleepin' in comfort – four solid walls and everything.

A happy gurgle sounded from somewhere upstairs, enough to make him glare at the ceiling and sink just a few inches lower into the cushions.

He wasn't cut out for this shit.

Mr. Mom might be something Daryl was into, but hell if it didn't run in the family.

* * *

He ended up hating himself more than a little bit when halfway through the night – hours spent tossing and turning, unable to sink down into the sweet nirvana the king sized mattress promised – he lurched out of bed and stomped across the hallway.

Not quite awake, he dragged the stupid crib all the way into the master bedroom, cussing up a blue streak as he shut the door behind him. Steadfastly ignoring the way that despite the ruckus, the little princess barely even stirred. Like she was used to it. Craved the closeness even. He told himself that it was just in case. That the master bedroom was big enough for the both of them, that-

He slept like the dead until her inquisitive hums woke him – all gentle and molasses-slow – around nine the next morning. Staring at him through the bars, innocent as anything as the morning sun filtered through the blinds.

He rubbed his eyes, giving her the ol' fish eye as he scritch-scratched his bare chest. Toes stretchin' out across the soft sheets as nerve endings he'd long given up hope for spluttered back to life.

"Mornin' Jude."

* * *

They were up before dawn the next day.

The little shit had been fed, watered, changed and was now sportin' what he figured was the world's best walker-fighting get up this side of the apocalypse. Better than the princess 'duds the women had insisted on dressin' her in at any rate.

He'd been avoiding it for as long as he could, but he figured that since he had a whole closet full of options to choose from and her stained sundress needed to be changed sooner rather than later, he might as well take the advantage while he had it.

He settled on a pair of tiny black jeans, a pale blue wife-beater and a fake pleather jacket. Figuring that for once she finally looked her nickname as he stuffed her into the carrier with a blanket and tightened the straps.

_There, that was better. _He thought, looking down. She wascurled up like a bug in a rug without limiting the use of his good hand. His remaining fingers ghosted across the clasp of his holster.

_They were ready. _

_Ready as they'd ever be._

He paused on the front porch, swinging on his pack, letting the sound of the quiet neighborhood – all long grass and creaking shutters – echo eerily through the still. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as sun-faded trash and last year's leaves whispered across the blacktop.

The atmosphere was different in the suburbs. Empty. Purposeless. Homes like grave stones to lives lived. Some clean, some mouldering and dank, some a fucking minefield of bloody smears and pop-out Halloween closet's. Give him the dirt under his feet any day. Dwellin' on what was said and done didn't do no one any favors.

At least in the wild you could make something for yourself.

Not tip-toe over some soccer mom's grave.

He cocked his head, hips canted east as an empty can of chocolate pudding twanged, popping metallically as the wind skittered it from side to side.

_Who in their right mind could even conceive of a can of puddin' that large anyway?_

City slickers were some weird fuckin' folk, make no mistake.

But as quickly as the thought rose, he shook it off, releasing it back into the wild as one of Judith's pudgy little fists curled around the collar of his jacket. Anchoring herself all firm and close as he cleared his throat and took the porch steps at an unsteady lunge.

It was time to get goin'.

They had a trail to pick up after all.

* * *

Days passed this way.

_Yes, plural._

Because fuck if he could figure out where the hell those god damned idiots had gotten off to.

* * *

"Nuh-uh," he grunted, insistent, muting the beam of his flashlight in a wad of blanket as he tried to figure out which way was up in the near dark. "Blondie might sing you to sleep, but I sure as hell ain't, so you best get that thought right out of your god damn head. Yah hear?" he declared, raising his voice to be heard above her screeches – loud enough to make his ears ring in the small space as he visualized every walker within a quarter mile zeroing onto their location.

Bedtime on the fourth day was a negotiation in the pouring rain, with only the backseat of an abandoned old-style Lincoln for cover and a lonely stretch of road that spanned out as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was exposed. But the rain was comin' down too hard to tough it out in the brush, especially with miss weak-ass immune system in tow.

"Little miss take me for a ride," he grunted, unstrapping her from his chest and stuffing her into the space where the seats met. Trying and failing to emulate the serene expression the song-bird plastered on whenever the little tyke got all riled up like this. "And after all I've done for you, hauling your useless ass all over hell's creation."

He had to toss out what'd sounded like half an old biddy's spoon collection before there was enough room to climb in. It was a tight fit – cramped - but there was nothing else for it, no other option that involved keeping their hind-ends high and dry as the storm swept in – nipping at their heels as he closed the door with a slam.

Quick as anything the downpour _ping-pinged_ against the metal roof. Almost enough to drown out the rumble of thunder as Mother Nature added her voice into the mix. He shuffled, ignoring the baby as she continued her verbal rampage. Sore back kickin' up a fuss as a fission of light – bright-pale and faster than the eye could see – lanced across the night sky.

_Fuck, they were in for it alright._

His lip curled in disgust as he got acquainted with their digs for the night. The car was old, all lumpy seats and questionable stains. His shoulders hunched as the chill set in. He'd slept in worse. They'd just have to make do for the night.

_Christ, it smelt like ass._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Two more chapters and this puppy will be done for real! I got an unexpected brain wave and this whole thing got a lot longer than I thought it would be. Someone should put that on my tombstone when I die, really.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, vague season three spoilers – five spoilers, physical and emotional (past) child abuse.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)**

_**Chapter Five**_

Two hours later he had to admit he was nearing the end of his patience.

She weren't hungry. Her stupid diaper was dry. But she was still cryin'. Little fists punching at the air, mad as anything as the pouring rain streamed down the windows. The stumps of his fingers throbbed in time with the pitching wails.

Daryl had only cried like this once that he could remember. Just before he caught some fever – Croup or somemat - big shuddering sobs that hadn't stopped until-

"Ahhh!" he yelled, losing it completely as he got right into her face, blood-shot and angry. Going a bit over the deep end with the crazy as the sobs stopped dead, shocked into an uneasy sort of silence as the rain _ping-plinged _overhead.

She blinked into the dark.

He blinked back, uncertain of what to do with this unexpected windfall as his fingers made tracks for her blanket.

"There now," he murmured, reaching down to pick her up, too relieved to take her to task about it as her lip quivered. "Not so fun when someone flips the tables now, is it?"

They shared a glare that seemed more like the calm before the storm, but as her eyes started to droop, cocooned and warm in the cradle of his good arm, he decided he'd take it either way.

* * *

He picked up three separate trails two days later. They intersected with the tracks at different points. Following the rails here and there, sometimes detouring off for a few miles, only to fall back in line at some natural intersection or change in terrain.

He shook his head, spitting up a mouthful of chew. _Fucking city slickers._ From what he could tell, they were darn near doing a dance, circling around each other here and there, only to miss by a half mile and an hour or three.

If they just cooled their heels for half a second they'd probably come across one another.

_Jesus._

* * *

The walker stuck in the tracks was a surprise, so were the boot prints milling around in all directions, big and small – heading off into the brush – running, jumping, a slow walk with deliberate footfalls, a lurching amble, the dragging of feet. Shit didn't make a lick of sense.

He chose the slow walk – three different sets of prints, two small, one mid-range - and made his way into the green.

He smelt it before he saw it.

_Pecans. _

An entire grove of 'em. Nestled in all cozy and shit with a back woods cottage and tree-strewn lawn. Some hermit's idea of a dream home, he figured.

He did a few laps around the perimeter before he approached. Getting a good feel for the place as he kept one eye on the ground. They'd been here alright, three – maybe four of 'em. Two of them little 'uns. The impressions were light, flighty, a stark difference to the large size thirteens that'd dug deep into the loose soil just beyond the fence.

Judith gummed on the edge of her blanket, watching his face and humming quietly to herself as he slipped his Glock out of his holster. The place looked deserted, but it didn't hurt to be careful, wasn't like this was "Driving Miss Daisy" after all.

"Well lookie here," he crowed, examining the tangled metal wires of the fence before securing it behind him, figuring that since they were probably going to stay the night, it wouldn't hurt to take precautions.

"Let's go see if anyone is home, huh?"

* * *

The fresh graves he skirted over.

They were too small to be Daryl.

The Samuel girls' maybe – Luke – or that other girl he'd never bothered to learn the name of. His money was on the first though. Tyreese had been with 'em when he'd last saw them, which would fit with the size of the big-ass prints that ranged all over the damned place.

It was the extra that had him stumped.

He crouched down by the front porch, examining the fourth set of tracks – small and light - with a frown. From all accounts whoever it was had been walking side by side with the other three, all close and friendly like. Meant it almost had to be one of the others. He couldn't imagine the big guy letting anyone get too close, especially not with the girls in tow.

It was only when Judith started blowing spit-bubbles, clearly bored out of her tree, angling her head this way and that, trying to see over the slope of his shoulder that he forced himself to shake it off and move on.

Just like the little graves, deep and broken in the weeping ground, that shit wasn't none of his business.

* * *

He had his feet up, toasty and warm beside the fireplace, when a trio of walkers came through the front window. He only had a second to process it - to catch firelight flickers as the bowl of roasted pecans tipped off the arm rest, pale and red as Judith's flushed cheeks - sleepy and well fed – caught in the low light. It provided a stark background as she flinched, fisting the hair of the doll she'd unearthed god knows where, eyes wide and fearful.

He snapped off two shots before he'd so much as kicked himself from the cushions - flailing for balance as two of the walkers dropped. But the third kept coming, stumbling and falling over the bodies as his next shot went wide, digging deep into solid oak timbers as the putrid thing crawled right towards-

Her frightened scream echoed, rebounding off the walls again and again as his brain fixed on it, vision tunnelling as one of those memories, the ones he always kept buried deep - drowning under lock and key - slithered to the surface.

* * *

It'd been his fault.

He hadn't been thinking.

_He'd gotten caught._

He'd_ let _himself get caught.

But they'd been outta formula.

Daryl had been crying – _hungry_.

He hadn't known what to do, he hadn't-

Their mama was on a triple-shift at the diner, too hung-over to either know or care and he hadn't seen head or tails of their 'pa in days. He'd been out of options. He'd nicked too much from the neighbours already, loose change, cans of apple sauce, veggie mash - stuff Daryl needed, stuff they could use to get by.

He'd taken a chance for an easy score and blown it.

_How'd he been supposed to know that the crusty old bitch who'd run the place had been watching him from the get-go?_

The county Sherriff had been a mean sonofabitch, and instead of looking at his haul and showing a bit of human decency, the man decided to teach him a lesson. Hauling him down to the station in handcuffs. Talkin' about prison and permanent records.

"_You're that Dixon kid, a'int you? Hell, if the apple don't fall far from the tree. The boys are gonna have a field day when I tell 'em about the little fish I caught today. Your old man is a piece of work, boy."_

He'd made it worse for himself when he'd refused to take the bait.

The douche had wanted crocodile tears and someone to stroke his ego.

But he'd stayed silent. Knowing that if he said anything, if they knew he'd left Daryl alone in his crib, they'd take him away for sure.

"_Hows'it feel back there, kid? Comfy? Hope so, cause you're gonna be spending a lot of time in the back of this car if you don't listen to me good, 'ya hear? Now, we're gonna call 'yer Daddy and see what he has to say about all this."_

* * *

The punch to his gut had propelled him right through the front door, slamming against the side of the crib as Daryl hiccupped through a sob, watching him go down through the gaps in the bars – face a mess of half dried snot and fresh tear tracks.

"You have any idea what I was in the middle of, boy?!" Their old man raged, slamming the door closed behind him as he wheezed on the ground, clutching his stomach. Struggling to pull in air as his bruised chest fluttered, panicked, trying to do too many things at once as he swallowed the tang of vomit with a shudder.

_Don't cry. _

_Don't move. _

_Take it like man. _

_Anything else makes it worse. _

_You know that._

"You had me come all the way down to the station, botherin' me from important business, and for what, this little shit!?" the man roared, unsteady and whiskey sour as he reached into the crib and picked up Daryl by the collar of his jumper.

He remembered how his hands had curled into fists – tight enough to draw blood as chewed off nails dug deep into his skin. He remembered the beast in his belly as he'd watched the man rant and rave, jerking his baby brother around like he was aiming to just up and drop 'im or worse.

He hadn't been able to protect him like he should have - like he'd wanted to.

He'd been helpless.

_Worse than helpless. _

Forced to watch every moment of it as the man had held Daryl by the nape, swinging him this way and that as he yelled, spittle flying. He curled up, watching through the slits of his eyes, quivering in place as Daryl started to cry.

And that sound, _Christ_ that sound.

God strike him dead if he'd ever heard anything like it.

Because it was self-aware and fearful, it was wisdom beyond his spit of years. It was like he knew. Knew the world had done him wrong, that he'd gotten the short end of the stick when he'd been stuck here. Trying to make do in a place where no one cared, where there was no food in the cupboards or a real family to take care of him. No one with the time or the credentials to raise 'im right.

The walker growled, filthy hands – porcelain tips and rotten – pawing at the edge of the blanket as it reached forward and-

Judith's terrified cry brought him out of it, wrenching him back to the here and now as he tossed his gun aside, whipped out his buck knife and damn near_ threw_ himself into the fray.

* * *

The walker fell with his knife deep in its right eye socket.

He stumbled, nearly falling in the blood-slick as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Oh yeah, you were just dying to get a piece of me weren't, yeh," he crowed, breathing hard, trying to shake off the fog as his vision centered once again.

"Special cut right here. Dixon special!" he chuckled, amping up the bravado despite the fact that there was no one around to see it, kicking the corpse off to the side as he surveyed the damage. That seemed to be the last of them. They were gonna have to plug that window if they wanted a decent night's rest, though.

Judith just burbled, testing out a string of almost-vowels - all rolling b's and a few f's stuck in for good measure - as she eyed him inquisitively. Looking from him to the pile of dead-heads, then back again as she tried to pull up a fistful of blanket without unseating herself.

"Go on then squirt, see if you can do better. No one likes backseat critiquing," he muttered, stump to hip as pulled his knife free, wiping it on the geek's shirt as pitch-black blood dribbled across the floorboards.

But the baby just bounced, gurgling happily from her seat in front of the fire. Apparently unperturbed by the entire show as she giggled and stuffed her fist clean into her mouth, reaching for him with the other like there was no place on earth she'd rather be.

And really, wasn't that just a hell of a thing?

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – One more chapter. Hold onto your butts!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: I head cannoned myself on tumblr from my own post: "So, I just got a mental image of Merle taking the place of Tyreese when the prison fell and he is like - baby on his hip in the forest and hating his entire god damned life and I am not sure whether to laugh or cry."

**Warnings:** This story is an AU after the middle of "This Sorrowful Life" (season three) – running off the premise that Merle somehow escaped from the Governor after their confrontation and made it back to the prison rather than dying and having Daryl find him as a walker. Basically picks up in season four after the Prison is attacked and spans into potential season 5 territory. *****Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, Merle and Daryl's shitty childhood, adult babies dealing with their feelings, actual babies doing baby things, vague season three spoilers – five spoilers, mild hints of caryl where in which interpretation is up to the reader.

**Sick and tired of legends untold (give me a happy ending god damnit)**

_**Chapter Six**_

The first sign he saw was just a map and some mutterings about sanctuary. _Terminus_. A safe place nestled in a crossroads where the rail-lines intersected less than five miles due east.

But he'd just rolled his eyes, kicking up a spray of dirt with a snort of disgust. Memorizing the lay of the map and then adding a two mile buffer zone, just in case, before crossing back into the brush.

_Safe place, his ass. _

Weren't no such thing these days.

Anyone who said any different was either sellin' something or lying through their teeth.

He'd already played that game what with Woodsbury and the Governor – and_ hell_ – it'd nearly cost him everything.

Even _his_ assholes knew better than to risk the serpent's paradise.

* * *

It was the ruckus and explosions which came later that forced him to consider otherwise.

He really should have known better than to give 'em that much credit.

* * *

He waited until the dust settled, or at least until the worst of the gunfire had tapered off – seeing loosely where they all came out - before cutting through the brush a couple miles ahead and settlin' down to wait.

_Hell if he hadn't called it._

_Terminus had been bad news._

Maybe it hadn't always been that way, but he knew enough about the human condition to recognize rot when he saw it. The little brat shifted against him, making a muted chorus of unhappy sounds, probably eager to be free of her carrier but he wasn't biting. Instead he rummaged around in his pack, unearthing the rest of the morning's bottle, and offered it to her.

He wasn't sure if it was out of hunger or sheer boredom, but she took to it all the same.

He stuck it out until she'd really gotten into it – all soft sucking and contented murmurs - before he tossed the blanket over his shoulder, hopin' she'd drop off after she'd been fed and watered.

He let his thoughts reel out as he kept on eye on the perimeter. It felt like he'd had an influx of time on his hands lately – time to think and fuck around in his own head. He wasn't sure if he liked it, to be honest. That shit was a pitfall just waiting to happen. There was a reason he'd spent most of his time before the end of everything blitzed out of his tree.

Still, the church mouse – his brother's silver fox - _damn _if that hadn't been a sight to see.

He'd been trying to figure out how the hell he was gonna get their sorry asses out of that mess when she came in, cool as anything, bloody and wrecked, pulling fireworks right out of her ass before charging in like something out of an old western, guns a blazin'.

That was one hell of a woman, right there.

No wonder Darlina had a love on for her.

* * *

The both of them were about a quarter of an hour into a well deserved nap when he heard them coming.

* * *

"Well a'int y'all a sight for sore eyes," he cracked, beyond pleased with himself as he stretched, leaning up against the gnarly old oak with careless grace. Looking for all the world like some half-feral tom-cat basking in the rays as the afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead.

His shit eating grin was a cover for the seconds he wasted counting – making sure – setting things straight in the back of his head as he took them in. Unable to squash the small niggling feeling of relief as they breasted the hill and came into sight.

Fuckin' city slickers had made it after all. Them and some extras apparently.

God knows when they'd time to make friends, but he supposed they were stuck with them for the time being.

He didn't bother hiding the wise-ass smirk when Daryl stopped dead.

"What'd I tell you about stickin' your nose into things that don't concern you, little bro? Looks like you went and stuck your face in a blender, damn."

He took it as his due when the tension deflated in Daryl's shoulders – expression switching from relief, to irritation and finally, grudging amusement as they stopped in a half circle around him. Gratifying in all the ways he told himself he didn't care about.

"How the hell did you find us?" Rick rasped, long hair stringy and blood-spattered at the temples, looking one emotion moment short of an all-out collapse as his boy edged toward him, uncertain.

"Just followed the noise man, you had a whole symphony going on over there, could hear that racket for miles," he returned, tone vaguely sing-song, enjoying the hell out of himself now as Glenn stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides, just lookin' for a reason.

"Don't tell me you just sat back and_ watched_?" the kid growled, "we nearly died, all of us!"

But he just smiled, peachy keen and twice as amused as Farmer's daughter put a hand on her man's shoulder – calming and still.

"Shush, now," he hummed, pressing his finger up against his lips in mock seriousness before reaching down to unveil his passenger – the gesture made flamboyant by his remaining fingers as they overcompensated for the weight and sent the blanket billowing outwards.

"Wouldn't want to wake up Miss Muppet, now would 'ya?"

The looks on their faces – ranging from burgeoning hope to dead shock – were almost worth the week of playing nanny.

_Almost._

* * *

He wasn't sure what to do with the realization when handing her over – feelin' her let go of that single hiccuping laugh, echoing into the crush as the others surged forward - wasn't as easy as he'd figured it would be.

He shook his head, watching from the sidelines. Chewing down all the words he didn't need to say as Daryl clapped him on the shoulder, smilin' like it was going out of style as he touched base – Rick, Judith, the silver-fox - then back to him again. It was a compulsion, like an old hound dog with a lopped off tail, letting his body do the talkin'.

_Fuckin' softie._

Still, he couldn't deny that he wasn't doing the same. His gaze catching on that spit of dark blonde hair as the baby wriggled and squealed – high and proud in Captain America's arms. Cold hearted as any dame as bright blue eyes watched him from over her old man's shoulder.

He nearly did a double take when he tasted blood, thick and bitter on his tongue, before looking away again. Quick. Guilty. _Angry_.

He ran his good hand through short greying curls.

_He needed a god damned drink, that's what._

* * *

He closed his eyes, filtering out the sound of the hen-party at his back as everyone set about getting reacquainted – makin' plans. Focusing instead on the strong northerly breeze kickin' through the dense Georgian brush. He breathed it in, deep forest rot and all. And just like it always did, it had a way of centering him. Trickling in through the senses until it'd sunk down, soul deep, letting a man know where he belonged in the grand scheme of things.

He was getting fuckin' sentimental in his twilight years.

_Christ. _

His lips thinned, making like they were going to form a sneer before losing steam in the follow through. After all, he'd gotten what he'd wanted. He had his brother back and the little miss was finally out of his hands. He was a free man and a lucky sonofabitch to boot. Had no business even thinkin' about wantin' more.

This shit right here was as close to a happy ending as a Dixon ever got.

Life got a whole lot easier when you made 'yer peace with that.

…_Or so he'd been told._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! I wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who has followed and reviewed this story, I wasn't expecting the outpouring of enthusiasm for this arc but I am sure glad that it exists! It just goes to show that a lot of people could foresee Merle having a place within the group after all. And that really warms me in the heart place! You guys are great! – This story is now complete.

"_Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass."_ \- John Steinbeck


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